Lost Pieces
by Loblolly
Summary: Wellard's never shot a man, according to Sawyer... but does the captain know everythign that happens to his men?


  
TITLE: (argh! I need one... I've been calling it Lost Pieces...) (1/?)  
AUTHOR: Loblolly Girl  
RATING: pg to pg-13, I think..   
DISCLAIMER: Wellard is mine.. ALL mine.. bwah ha ha!!!! Actually, I'm still waiting for the Forester estate to get their panties out of the twist and give him to me, along with Hornblower and Bush and Kennedy and Clive and Captain Sawyer, not to mention the Renown and Pellew and the Indy and all that good stuff. As far as I know, all of Mariam belongs to me, van Dyken is mine, named after the swimmer, and yeah.. all those random sailors came from somewhere...   
ARCHIVE: Absolutesomudo  
AUTHORS NOTES: I blame it all on the line between Sawyer and Wellard about Wellard never having shot a man.... At least the first chapter. After that, only Wellard, Mariam, Hornblower, Kennedy and Clive can tell me where I'm getting this... did you know Wellard is very persuasive when he wants something written? It's really cute... especially as he's dictating parts of this to me, complete with sound effects and he's acting pieces out.... Um.. yeah. Anyway.  
  
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Midshipman Henry Wellard was almost ecstatic. He had been given command of a press gang. The Renown was going back to sea, and she needed men! Captain Sawyer had appeared holding his rolled up copy of the Warrant of the Press. Looking down his long nose, his disapproving gaze fell on each of the officers in turn before he unrolled the paper. Clearing his throat, he had begun.  
  
" By the Commissioners for Executing the Office of Lord High Admiral of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland and of all His Majesty's Plantations. " Sawyer paused, peering around again to make sure all of the attention of his officers was focused on him. "In pursuance of His Majesty's Order in Council, dated the Sixteenth day of November, 1800, We do hereby Impower and Direct you to impress or cause to be impressed, so many Seamen, Seafaring Men and Persons whos Occupations and Callings are to work in Vessels and Boats upon Rivers, as shall be necessary either to Man His Majesty's Ship under your command or any other of His Majesty's Ships, giving each unto each Man so impressed One Shilling for Prest Money. And in the execution hereof, you are to take care that neither yourself nor any other Officer authorized by do demand or receive any Money, Gratuity, Reward or other Consideration whatsoever, for the sparing, Exchanging, or Discharging any Person or Persons impressed or to be impressed as you will answer to it at your Peril."   
  
The captain almost spat the last phrase at Wellard. The midshipman knew perfectly well that for some reason Sawyer didn't trust him, and he was going to make absolutely sure while heading a press gang that nothing went wrong anywhere near him.   
  
The gravely voice continued "You are not to intrust any Person with the execution of this Warrant, but a Commission Officer and to insert his Name and Officer in the Deputation on the other side hereof, and set your Hand and Seal thereto---This Warrant to continue in Force till the Thirty First day of December, 1800, and in the due execution thereof, al Mayors, Sheriffs Justices of the Peace, Bailiffs, Constables Headboroughs, and all other HIS Majesty's Officers and Subjects whom it may concern, are hereby required to be aiding and assisting unto you, and those employed by you, as they tender His Majesty's Service, and will answer the contrary at their Perils." Sawyer continued to peer at the assembled company as he rolled the Warrant back up.   
  
"I expect this impression to be conducted in an orderly fashion. Dismissed!"  
  
Wellard had all but skipped from the ship and down into the maze of streets. He had eight men following, among them three of the meanest looking tarry sailors from the Renown. Two pistols were tucked in his belt, and for the first time in months, he walked with his almost a bounce in his step. He was smiling as he rounded the first corner.   
  
They had to nab the men and nab them fast. As soon as the word got a round the press was out, every man would be concealed in the darkest corner of his house, hiding from the terrors of a sea battle. Each gang had to round up at least twelve men to bring back to the Renown whether they wanted to go to sea or not.   
  
The first two were easy. Two men were sitting on a corner, smoking pipes and conversing when Wellard's group fell on them. They had obviously been drinking earlier that night, and they were still tipsy, making it easy for the Renown's group to stand them up, cut their waistbands and then move them along in search of more. By the time the streets of Portsmouth had been emptied of able men, either of their own volition or that of the Royal Navy's, Wellard was exhausted. He wanted nothing more than to return to his dark corner of the midshipmen's berth and collapse in his hammock, but as he entered the other midshipmen came streaming out.   
  
"Captain wants all us out ashore, Runt. Come on." Van Dyken, the oldest and tallest midshipman, put a hand on Wellard's shoulder and steered him back out, none too gently. Reginald Van Dyken was rumored to be at least 25, having failed his Leftenant's exam each one of the five times he had stood for it, much o the dismay of his commanding officers. The Renown was the third ship he had served on, and he wasn't rumored around the fleet for being one of the most caring people aboard, especially to the youngest boy in the midshipmen's' mess. He was in an especially rancid mood that night because he had been severely berated by Leftenant Woods for a comment about one of the two new Leftenants... the one with the funny name. His fingers dug into Wellard's shoulder, and it took all of the younger boy's composure to keep form trying to squirm away, knowing full well that if he succeeded in getting free now, there would be no rest for him later that night. Van Dyken wasn't one of the constantly brutally cruel midshipmen, but he had his own ways of making life quietly miserable for young Henry Wellard, ways that only the other midshipmen could trace back to Van Dyken, and even then only at the risk of having the same techniques of silent torture applied to them.   
  
Wellard allowed himself to be herded along to the Cart and Bull, the favorite tavern of the Renown's midshipmen. He didn't usually come along, seeing as how his interests didn't run to the padded and corseted serving maids the way the others' did. Edward Rollins and Peter MacConaghy had both caught one of the girls and were bouncing her back and forth between them. Wellard had given up being offended after the first time he was 'disciplined' for stepping out of line as the most junior of midshipmen. He sighed, trying to keep himself as unnoticeable as possible. The pistols he hadn't had a chance to take out of his waistband were starting to dig uncomfortably into his flesh, and he squirmed slightly.   
  
Half an hour passed, as the others imbibed more and more alcohol and became more and more obnoxious, Wellard's headache grew. It felt as if there was an angry troll trying to jab pieces out of his head from inside, and a fire burning in the back of his eyes. Standing up, he rubbed at his temples as he tried to fight his way out of the crush of blue uniforms.   
  
"Hey!" a voice called as he pushed free. "Hey! Runt's leaving!" Damn Van Dyken! Wellard thought. Drunk enough to be dangerous but not drunk enough to be oblivious. The last thing he needed or wanted was to be pushed around more with this splitting headache. He quickened his step. "Well?" Van Dyken's voice was insistent. "Follow the piglet. Nobody leaves until we do!" Two of his lackeys threw off their barmaids and somewhat drunkenly forged after Wellard. He slipped between tables, trying to make it hard for them to catch up. The back door was closer at hand, and Wellard found himself in the alley behind the Cart and Bull, surrounded by empty crates and garbage. His choices were bad and worse, leaving him no option but to forge into the back alley further. The door was flung open, and Van Dyken was silhouetted in the firelight spilling forth.   
  
"Runt! Where do you think you're going, Runt?" The gangly form started towards him. "We weren't leaving, Runt, did you think you would ruin our fun? Did you think yo----" The insults abruptly ended. A figure had rushed from the darkness behind Wellard and launched itself at Van Dykens' voice, knocking him to the ground. "What is---" the words were blocked. Wellard could see Van Dyken struggling with the unseen attacker, but hung back, trying to judge the severity of the situation.   
  
"Runt!" his voice was blocked, but then free again as Van Dyken struggled. "For Christ's sake, Runt, shoot him!" Another brief struggle. 'Damned pickpocket! You're beaten, boy!" Van Dyken yelled at the attacker and then at Wellard. "Shoot him, Runt! Now!"   
  
Wellard had taken one of the pistols from his belt and was watching. An animal sound was coming from the person fighting with Van Dyken, a low growling like a cornered dog. "If you don't mpmph---- Runt, NOW, I'll -mpphmmp- for -MMph- SHOOT HIM, DAMN YOU!" Wellard slowly raised the gun, aiming to hit the center of the dark shape.   
  
"What is it?"   
  
"Damn you, Runt, just shoot it!"   
  
"Shoot it!..... SHOOT IT!"  
  
The black shape suddenly threw itself towards Wellard, and instinctively his finger tightened on the pistol trigger. He saw it in slow motion, the flash of fire, the puff of smoke, the path of the ball as it struck out to lodge itself into the attacker. The shape crumpled to the ground. Van Dyken's followers had come to stand in front of the door, and they cheered as they saw their leader climb from the ground. He knelt over the fallen attacker, then stood up and gave the still form a kick. A low growl emanated from its throat.   
  
"What's' all this! What's all this!" The old owner of the Cart and Bull came bustling out, holding a lantern into the dark alley. The figure on the ground looked to be that of a pickpocket, a common nuisance on the back streets. Van Dyken quickly knelt and covered the blood slowly spreading over the boys front.   
  
"Just a disagreement, thank you. It's under control." Van Dyken suddenly became the picture of civility.   
  
The owner cast a wary glance around and then pulled his head back inside.   
  
"Take 'em back to this Renown. We'll have Clive deal with the little bundle of horse droppings. Bishop, grab the legs. Alexander, get the head." Wellard was still standing where he had been, staring at the fallen boy, no older than he himself, skinny and covered in bruises from the street life. HE had shot him. He, Henry Wellard, had shot, maybe fatally, a poor street boy who could have been his brother... who could have been him, had his position in his fathers house fallen any farther. The pistol fell from his hand.   
  
"Runt! Snap out of it!" Van Dyken hissed in his ear. The older midshipman bent to pick up the pistol and shoved it back into Wellard's waistband. He blinked slowly, trying to drag himself back to his senses.   
  
"Useless, Runt, that's what you are. And you call yourself a naval officer... that was your first shot... you're a disgrace." The hand clamped back down on his shoulder, and Van Dyken was once again leading a shell-shocked Wellard through the streets, following a procession of midshipmen trying to look like it was perfectly natural to be carrying a bleeding street boy along with them.  



End file.
